


Stay

by Minako1x2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky probably also needs a hug, Bucky sings, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Illness, Kissing, M/M, Memories, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War Bucky Barnes, Singing, Sometimes Fluff, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, World War II, steve rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minako1x2/pseuds/Minako1x2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After D.C. Steve sets out to find Bucky, following the trail of rubble and bodies his best friend leaves behind.<br/>But then, there are the days when he sees a glimpse, just a glimpse. And the nights that follow when Bucky will find him instead. </p><p>Steve remembers when Bucky was his, when they spent every waking minute together, though thick and thin, firsts and lasts . . . He can't always tell if Bucky remembers too. Most of the time, it feels as though he keeps slipping through Steve's fingers over and over again. </p><p>But maybe . . . If Steve can just hold on tight enough . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> So...this fic is all because I was writing (something else, of course) and this song came on and all I could see were flashes of Steve and Bucky. I tried to fight it, but in vain . . . and now the fic is written, and I think I may love it. I'm actually really nervous to let go and put it out in the world . . . silly me. I should be used to this by now. ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> Til I Fall Asleep, by Jayme Dee
> 
> If you would just slow down you would see  
> We were meant for something  
> Lay your armor down and stay with me  
> Aren't you tired of running?  
> Can we go back before the storm came raging?  
> And everything we built was gone  
> So sing to me til I fall asleep  
> Like the way you did when you were still mine  
> And tell me that it's not over yet  
> We were never good at saying goodbyes  
> Why can't you see what's right in front of your eyes?  
> Remember our first kiss that starry night?  
> It felt like we were flying  
> So how do we forget?  
> That love is on our side  
> Oh we never saw this coming  
> Can we go back before the morning took you?  
> And every dream of you was gone  
> And so sing to me til I fall asleep  
> Like the way you did when you were still mine  
> And tell me that it's not over yet  
> We were never good at saying goodbyes  
> Why can't you see what's right in front of your eyes?  
> Woah, woahhh, woahhhhh  
> Can we go back before the storm came raging?  
> And everything we built was gone  
> So sing to me til I fall asleep  
> Like the way you did when you were still mine  
> So sing to me til I fall asleep  
> Like the way you did when you were still mine  
> And tell me that it's not over yet  
> We were never good at saying goodbyes  
> Oh we were never good at saying goodbyes  
> Why can't you see what's right in front of your eyes?

He never left until after Steve had fallen asleep.

And so Steve did his damnedest to stay awake.

They’d made a pattern of this--this routine that had become their lives after D.C. Steve chased Bucky, following the trail he left behind as he laid waste to Hydra bases that weren’t in any of the official files. He wouldn’t catch him, not then. Steve would reach the site, walk through the destruction and carnage that had once been a research lab, or underground offices, or a weapons cache, then he would catch a glimpse--just a glimpse--of a figure in the distance, an arm gleaming in the sunlight or moonlight or city lights, whatever there happened to be, and then the figure would be gone. And that’s how Steve would know.

He never told Sam.

After every destroyed site, Steve and Sam would move on, to the next town over, finding themselves a place to stay. Hotel, hostel, safe house, inn, whatever they could find. On the occasions when Steve saw the figure, he would ensure wherever they stayed that he had a room to himself.

Bucky only ever showed when Steve had a room to himself.

He would slip in once Steve had gone to bed, turned out all the lights. Only then. Only ever in the dark, when the night could hide the truth--that time and life had twisted them both into something _other._ That the one who had once smiled and charmed his way out of any scuffle now hid his face behind a mask and black paint; and that the other, who had coughed and wheezed and punched and kicked his way stubbornly through life, never backing down, never admitting defeat, had laid down his shield, given up the fight with the final threads of his shattered hope.

Those few threads--that’s what they both clung to now.

They had both fallen, both frozen, and neither was sure how to get up and thaw.

These encounters were fast, frenzied. A tangle of limbs, and the press of mouths. In the dark, Steve could almost pretend he was little again, or that they were hushed together in the tentative safety of the woods in Italy, and that the hands gripping his sides, his hips, his thighs, his hair, were both flesh, both warm.

Not that he cared. The metal hand was still Bucky, still the man he had known his whole life. He could tell. No one touched him like Bucky did, and this hand, this whirring, chilled, metal extension was more familiar than the face he saw in the mirror every morning.

Release was always bittersweet, and they both held off as long as they could. Sometimes Steve could sense the frustration thrumming through Bucky’s body--because it was Bucky, not the Winter Soldier, or whatever anyone else wanted to call him--could sense the urgency and the battle that warred inside his head. On those nights, Steve would whisper his name between kisses, between gasps and moans, saying it over and over again, until they both collapsed, and he could feel the tears wet against his neck.

He never said anything then. Never called attention to it. He would lie there, run his fingers through the long hair that had no place in his oldest memories, and fought off sleep.

Because as soon as he fell asleep, Bucky would leave, and the cycle would continue.

So Steve would lie there, eyes stubbornly open, listening to the beat of the heart that was not his own but that gave him life all the same, and poured through memories until he lost the battle and memories became dreams.

 

_He was sick again. Steve knew that much. The room was too hot and too cold all at once, and most of the time the walls tilted and spun. He felt sick to his stomach and ravenously hungry, but his chest was tight and his vision was shittier than ever. He’d lost track of time, didn’t know how many hours or days he had lost to the fever, and couldn’t muster up the energy to care._

_It scared him when he got this bad. Sick enough that he began to wonder if this was it, the flu that would do him in . . ._

_Steve rolled onto his side, reaching for the glass of water he thought he remembered being on the bedside table. Thankfully, he heard it clink as he brushed his fingers against it, but his hand fumbled and the glass and water went clattering to the floor._

_He stared at the puddle and the overturned glass, his vision blurry from more than just the fever. He felt weak, useless, helpless. It wasn’t the first time. And if it turned out to be the last, it wouldn’t be because he had suddenly shed the illness-prone frame he had been given._

_Had to pick it up. Couldn’t leave the mess. His arms shook, and his toes curled at the cold exposure of being out from under the threadbare blanket. It wasn’t far. He could do this much, could get the glass . . ._

_“Steve?”_

_The voice startled him. He’d thought he’d been alone. He was always alone. Always alone with his lungs and his fevers and his eyes and all the other things that set him apart. His ma had always taken care of him, but she was gone. Gone, taken, dead. She’d been stuck in bed too. Coughing blood and gripping water glasses in shaking hands. He’d sat by her side the entire way, like she’d always done for him. He’d tried to sing for her, but he didn’t have her voice._

_And now he was alone. But he wasn’t. Hands gripped his arms, lifting him, catching him. Steve hadn’t realized he’d been falling. His knees stung, and his hands were wet._

_“Steve, what are you doing? You gotta stay in bed, pal.”_

_Steve blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, and could see only a blurry mix of dark and pale tan. The bed was under him again, and his shoulders were being pressed back down onto the lumpy pillow. He clutched at the rough-spun shirt that seemed to stretch across a muscled chest and smelled peppermint and cigarettes._

_“Bucky?”_

_“Yeah, Steve. It’s me.”_

_Bucky. Of course it was Bucky. The knot around his heart loosened a bit. “Thought I was alone.”_

_A soft chuckle. “Forgetting about me already? That’s cold, Stevie.”_

_“Sorry,” Steve mumbled, feeling the blankets pulled back over him, shutting out the winter air, but quickly making him hot beneath them. But as he pulled together the scraps of memory he had-- “You’re supposed ta be workin’.” Bucky always went to work. What day was it? Bucky should have been working. Not home with Steve._

_“Don’t worry about it. You need anything?” A cold hand rested against his forehead, then brushed back his sweat-soaked bangs._

_Bucky was here. Here. With him. Close, so close. But not close enough. This winter had been particularly brutal; cold and snowy, and their apartment did little to keep them warm. Their apartment. Together. It had taken days, but Bucky had finally convinced him because . . ._

_“Ma’s gone.”_

_Silence. Steve rubbed at his eyes, trying to see better, and finally cleared enough of the blur away to see Bucky’s face, his expression tight, sad--worried. “Yeah, pal,” he said with a nod._

_“You’re all I got.” Steve reached out, because how could he not touch that face? Something was wrong with Bucky’s smile. He needed to fix it. Smooth it away. Back to normal._

_His lips were so soft and cool._

_Bucky took Steve’s hand in his, moving it away from his face as he spoke. “I think you’re getting a little delirious on me, Steve. Let me get you some more water.” Bucky stood, moved away. Steve panicked, reaching for him._

_He didn’t want to be alone._

_“Don’t go.” His hand only brushed Bucky’s hip, and he’d twisted himself onto his side, half hanging off the bed._

_It wasn’t what he had intended, but it got Bucky to return, to help him lie down once more. “You need water, Steve. And sleep.”_

_Steve gripped Bucky’s sleeve as tightly as he could manage. “Stay.” Alone was worse. Alone was . . . His stomach clenched._

_“Just let me get the water. I’ll come right back.”_

_“Dun wanna be alone.” He felt it, close and creeping. That dark presence that seemed to have stalked him all his life._

_“Okay, okay. Um . . .” Bucky set his hand on Steve’s arm, an anchor as he thought. “Aha. I know. I’ll sing. I’ll sing my way to the kitchen, that way you know I’m still here, okay? And I’ll be real quick.”_

_He didn’t want to agree. Wanted to stay just as they were, with Bucky’s hand on him, Bucky sitting close, keeping the fear of being lost at bay. But he knew Bucky. Knew he wouldn’t give up if he thought something was important._

_Steve nodded. Meant to nod._

_Regardless, Bucky grinned, and started singing. Something loud and slightly off-key. Steve couldn’t remember the name of the song, or even concentrate on the words, but it was familiar, and it was Bucky’s voice, and that was enough._

_Steve clung to that sound as Bucky stood and left the room. His bed felt too big and too empty with Bucky gone, and though the pull on his eyes was strong, Steve forced them to remain open. He refused to sleep. Refused. If he closed his eyes . . ._

_Bucky returned, still singing, putting on a show, and sat once more at Steve’s side. It was only then he helped Steve sit up, sip from the glass, then lie back down. “See?” he said. “Not so bad right? Better now, even, I’d bet. Why don’t you get some sleep?”_

_Shaking his head, Steve continued to focus on staying awake. Awake was good. Awake was safe. He could see Bucky, and he wasn’t alone._

_“Come on, Steve. You gotta sleep if you’re gonna get better.”_

_He shook his head again, but it made his temples throb, and his vision white-out for a moment._

_Bucky sighed. “Steve, you gotta rest. Remember--” He paused, like he was going to say something but thought better of it. “You know sleep helps. You sleep, and I’ll have some soup ready for you when you wake up.”_

_“Don’t go!” The desperation in his own voice shocked Steve._

_Bucky caught his reaching hand, held it tight. “Not going anywhere, pal. ‘M right here. But you gotta sleep.”_

_It was getting harder and harder to resist. Steve caught his eyes drooping, and forced them open once more. He needed something. Something to tie him to this world, to life, to Bucky . . ._

_And just like that, Bucky began to sing again. The tune was soft this time, a ballad, something about first love and beauty. The steady rhythm lulled Steve, and his eyes began to close. But it was all right. He could feel Bucky’s hand in his, and Bucky’s voice all around him._

_He wasn’t alone._

 

Another mad dash across the continent. Another Hydra base destroyed. Another brief moment stolen in the quiet and darkness of a rundown motel where no one asks questions. A baseball cap and some cuts and bruises are enough to hide Captain America’s face. Enough to keep the manager glancing away as he slides over the room keys in exchange for cold hard cash.

It’s certainly not the life he envisioned. Not the future he thought had been set aside for him back in the 30s and 40s when war and poverty and just surviving day to day were the norm. This cellular phone in his pocket, the warm leather jacket, the fresh socks that haven’t been darned a dozen times, and TV and internet; a world of information, all at his fingertips. Steve remembers a time when no one thought he would live to see twenty-five, let alone the 1950s.

They’d been half right. He’d missed the 50s. And the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s. Even the first decade of the new century. New millennium. What was left of that old life? Museum pieces. His whole life, rounded up and put on display. He visited Peggy when he could, called when there was no other option. The last time he had picked up the phone she’d been having a bad day. Didn’t know him.

It was hard to watch your life fade away. Become history.

It was harder still to have what little remained so close, in your hands, and yet unreachable.

Bucky seemed different tonight. Gentler. Maybe. There were still dents in the headboard, and a sheet had torn, but . . . Steve still felt like there was _something._ Something lingering just below the surface. A memory, perhaps. Or . . . a connection.

It wasn’t a night where the tears came. Bucky had collapsed on top of Steve, and his face was pressed against Steve’s neck, his breath hot and uneven, but there were no tears. His metal hand still clutched Steve’s hip, thumb stroking idly, back and forth, back and forth. Like he was thinking. Steve wiped his own bangs out of his eyes, then slowly, tentatively, reached out to stroke Bucky’s long hair, tangled and still dusty with debris.

Usually they never spoke when the fire that drove them into each other’s arms had gone out. Steve was always afraid to break the silence; as if shattering that delicate air around them would send Bucky away for good.

But tonight felt different.

He needed something, _anything_ , to quiet the mad thoughts in his head. Thoughts that everything was gone, that despite all they had been through, the unthinkable events that had miraculously moved them both through time, landing them together once more, struggling and clinging to one another just to get by day to day. He needed to know it would be okay. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, always together, always scraping by.

Fingers woven through his best friend’s hair, feeling the same despite the years and the length that made it so different, Steve gathered his courage and whispered into the night, “Stay.”

Bucky said nothing, the silence dragging on and on until Steve thought he might suffocate under it. Until he remembered that he needed to breathe. Drawing breath again felt like acknowledging the other man’s answer. Bucky’s flesh hand tightened a bit around the nape of Steve’s neck, a squeeze that echoed the tension in his body.

When the hand loosened, just as Steve felt sleep taking him against his will once more, he realized that Bucky had forgotten to breathe as well.

 

_For as long as he could remember, Steve had loved counting the stars. His mother would take him out in the summer (only in the summer, and only on warm nights) and point out the constellations, telling him stories that had been told for centuries, and weaving new ones when Steve would see a face or figure that had no name. She’d laughed and hugged him, peppering his face with kisses when he would attempt to count each and every light in the sky, losing track and pouting before starting all over again._

_He counted them now, sketching their patterns into blank sheets of paper, his pencil worn and in need of sharpening. He and Bucky had gone to Coney Island, as the government had just proclaimed the Fourth a paid federal holiday, and whiled the day away eating sweets, playing games of chance, and braving the Cyclone. Steve had thrown up. Bucky had bought him a Coke once he was finished laughing through his apology. Steve didn’t mind. He liked listening to Bucky goad him into stupid ideas. “Come on, Steve, just once. Ride it. You’re tall enough now. What are ya, chicken?” If it had been anyone else Steve would have decked him, but Bucky . . . Bucky Steve would forgive anything._

_Besides, he would get him back for it. Someday._

_They’d gone down to the beach, cooling off in the water before lying out in what remained of the sun. Steve was certain he’d burned. His nose and cheeks itched, but it was worth it. Worth it to spend the day with Bucky, to see him smile that much. Bucky worked too hard, bringing home most of the money that kept a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. Steve’s jobs were . . . less reliable._

_Which was why, after the sun set, Steve had encouraged Bucky to join the festivities when a group of local youths he was familiar with had set up camp, awaiting the fireworks. Steve had hung around for a bit, but it soon became clear (as it always did) that the girls were only interested in Bucky, and the other guys were only interested in lording their height and size over Steve. So, as soon as the opportunity arose, Steve had slipped away, opting instead to sit under the boardwalk and pull out the few scraps of paper and pencil he’d kept in his pocket for just such an occasion._

_He’d counted two-hundred and seventy-five stars when Bucky found him._

_“Steve, what’re you doin’ all the way over here?”_

_“Just sittin.’ Go have your fun, Buck.”_

_“It’s not fun without you.”_

_“I don’t mind. Really.”_

_“Shut up, jerk. Scoot over.”_

_Steve did, and Bucky plunked down beside him, limbs too loose and balance unsteady. Steve squinted and got a better look at his friend’s eyes. Their normal sparkling grey was a bit glassier than usual. “You drunk, Buck?”_

_“Nah. Just feelin’ good. Can’t get enough’a anything to do more. Not here. We can go somewhere though, if you want.”_

_“We’ve spent enough money today.”_

_“I saved up! We got plenty. Besides, it’s not like it’s just any day.”_

_“Already having a great day. Don’t need anything more.” And it was true. The truest thing Steve Rogers knew. As long as he was with Bucky Barnes, he had everything he needed. Didn’t matter that girls didn’t look twice at him, or that other guys only ever wanted to put him in his place, Bucky always looked at him and_ saw _him. That was what mattered._

_“Hey, Steve.” Bucky’s touch on Steve’s hand startled him, but he managed to keep hold of his pencil._

_“Yeah, Buck?”_

_Bucky drew his hand back, but let it rest on the sand by Steve’s hip. He was leaning in kinda close, but Steve figured that was probably the booze. “Think anyone can see us here?”_

_“Not unless they were really lookin,’” Steve said. It was why he had picked this spot. He had known only Bucky would bother to come looking._

_“Good.”_

_And then Bucky’s lips were pressed against his own, and Steve forgot to breathe._

_It was everything and nothing like he’d always imagined. Bucky’s lips were rougher than they looked, a bit chapped, and sporting a scab from a fight they’d gotten into a few days before. Steve could feel that rough bit of healing press against his own lips, and he loved the sensation, the realness of it. The corner of his own mouth was still a little bruised from the same encounter, and when Bucky pressed in, just slightly, asking permission for something more, Steve gasped a little and parted his lips._

_Bucky’s tongue was warm, demanding but gentle--just like Bucky. Steve could taste the cigarettes and the cheap alcohol that had gotten his friend buzzed, and instantly felt drunk himself. His heart, which often beat out of rhythm, or heavily against his chest, soared, light enough that for a brief, mad moment, Steve worried it might fly away._

_And then Bucky broke away, slowly, with one more light, chaste kiss at the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve didn’t know how long the kiss had lasted, minutes? Seconds? Hours? It felt like forever, and not enough all at the same time. Forever would never be enough._

_“Happy Birthday, Stevie.”_

_He stared at his friend, dumbfounded and drunk and completely incapable of human speech._

_“You okay?” Bucky touched his face, the touch fleeting and tentative, as if he was suddenly unsure of his welcome._

_Steve forced himself to nod._

_Bucky chuckled. “Just speechless, huh? Had I known that was all it took to get you to stop flapping your yap I woulda done it a lot sooner.”_

_Steve punched him square in the arm, the friendly tease, the return to their normal banter, enough to snap him out of it._

_Rubbing his arm, Bucky grinned lopsidedly. “Ow. Save that strength for the assholes cornerin’ you in the alleys.”_

_“Better off using it to keep you in line.”_

_“Is that what you want, Rogers? To keep me in line?” He waggled his eyebrows._

_“Someone has to. After all, you’re always struttin’ around like a peacock, demanding attention from everyo--”_

_His words were lost in Bucky’s mouth._

_This kiss was shorter, but no less heated. In fact, this time, Steve felt his cheeks go hot, his neck, his chest . . ._

_“That works pretty well,” Bucky said, nose still bumping Steve’s._

_Once again, it took a moment for Steve to figure out how to make his brain and his mouth work, both separately and together. “Don’t think you can just go around--”_

_Bucky shut him up again._

_“Can’t keep doin’ that out here,” Steve finally said, his head buzzing as if he’d been the one drinking._

_“What do you propose?”_

_“Home.”_

_“You don’t wanna stay and watch the fireworks? It’s a tradition, Stevie. You can’t just mess with tradition.”_

_This time Steve shut Bucky up._

_They didn’t stay._

_But Steve did see fireworks. In a manner of speaking._

 

“Stay.” He said it each time now. Each time he lay there, Bucky’s head against his chest, the both of them breathing heavily, fighting off sleep and reveling in the aftershocks of what they had done together.

Every time, Bucky said nothing, and slipped away once Steve had lost the fight to stay awake.

Tonight seemed no different. They’d come together fast and frantic, then slower and more reverent, like each touch was a prayer and a hope. It seemed like there was so little hope nowadays. Steve spent all his on this one single thing.

“Stay.” He said it again when the silence was an answer that only threatened to crush his heart. To leave him an empty shell, worn and broken by time and fate and cruel destinies. That single word had become his world, and he nearly choked on the tears that tried to rise to the surface with it.

How much longer could they do this?

Bucky turned his head, pressing a kiss to Steve’s shoulder, the hot roll of a single tear trailing in the kiss’s wake. “I can’t,” he said.

They were the first words he had spoken to Steve in weeks.

 

_“God, Steve, hold still for one second, will ya?”_

_“It’s fine, Buck. You don’t need to fuss.”_

_“The hell I don’t. My best guy’s got a split lip and knuckles to match. I can fuss if I want. So hold still.”_

_Steve was used to the sting as Bucky cleaned out the injuries he had sustained from yet another fist fight. This time had been over some guy thinking he could treat a lady with anything less than respect. Couldn’t just stand by and say nothing, no matter what anyone else said or did, or didn’t do. Just wasn’t in Steve to let bullies have their way unopposed. He didn’t mean for it to end in fists and blood, it just always came ‘round that way. Bigger guys always thought they could take Steve easily._

_Steve Rogers never stayed down._

_This time Bucky had gotten involved pretty quickly, on account of him having only slipped into the corner store to buy some smokes. Wasn’t gone more than two or three minutes._

_“Can’t turn my back on you for a second,” Bucky said, moving on to inspect Steve’s hand. “I swear, Rogers, one’a these days I’m gonna have you permanently attached to my hip. Maybe then I can finally keep track of ya.”_

_“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Steve admitted. He reached up with his free hand, gently touching the swollen line of Bucky’s cheek bone where he’d taken a rather nasty punch. “Could watch out for you better that way myself. “_

_“Oh yeah? Who got me into this scrape in the first place, huh? Sure isn’t me always running around lookin’ for trouble.”_

_“I don’t go lookin’ for it!”_

_“Third time this month I’ve found you on the wrong end of a fist.”_

_“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to get involved. Never start nothin’ I can’t finish on my own. I don’t need you bailing me out every time.”_

_Bucky laughed, and for a brief moment Steve was prepared to throw yet another punch, until he really heard that sound--and the love and admiration behind it. “You know what, Rogers? You are one cocky son of a bitch.”_

_“Wipe that grin off your face, Barnes,” Steve said, pulling his hand back, out of Bucky’s tending grip just because. “I meant what I said. I can take care of myself.”_

_“I know you can, pal.”_

_“You’re still grinning.”_

_“Sure am.”_

_“Cut it out.”_

_“Gonna make me?” The grin turned to a smirk. A very distinct smirk, one Steve knew very, very well. Bucky didn’t have hold of him anymore, but he’d leaned forward, still on his knees, his face very close to Steve’s where he sat on the edge of their worn and threadbare couch._

_Steve’s blood was still singing through his veins. He didn’t know for sure, but he wondered if this was the same kind of high people got when they went to some of the seedier places in the city. Or even if it was similar to the tingle Bucky talked about getting when he smoked his cigarettes. He was jazzed. Too wound up to sit still. “If I have to.”_

_“Prove it.”_

_They ended in a tangle of limbs and half-torn off clothes on the floor beside the couch, both too impatient to make their way to the single bedroom. Bucky was gasping for breath, chest heaving and heart pounding. He wiped his sweat soaked hair from his forehead before letting his arm fall back to his side, heavy as lead._

_Steve was laughing._

_“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”_

_Steve whacked Bucky across the chest. “No cursin’.”_

_“No cursin’! You kiddin’ me? Holy shit, Rogers, where the hell did_ that _come from?”_

_Steve shrugged, rolling over to use Bucky as a pillow. “Sure wiped that grin off your face, didn’t I? Wanna go again?”_

_“Go again? Fuck, Steve. I think you might kill me if I let you go again.”_

_Once again, Steve just laughed. It felt good. Like he could do anything, go anywhere. But really, he just loved knowing that he could undo James Buchannan Barnes. There were some things Steve Rogers could do no problem at all._

_Just as he was running his fingers up and down along Bucky’s side, planning his next move, Bucky suddenly sat up, scooping Steve into his arms and heading out of their small living room._

_Steve squirmed. “Put me down.”_

_“Quit it. Gonna kick me somewhere important.”_

_“I ain’t no dame, Buck. Put me down.”_

_“Shut up.” With that, Bucky dumped Steve onto their single bed, watching him bounce before grabbing the blankets and getting in beside him, covering them both up._

_Steve thought maybe Bucky had just wanted a change of scenery before indeed having another go, but then the brunet wrestled him around, curling up against Steve’s back, arms locked securely around Steve’s waist. “What’re we doin’, Buck?”_

_He felt Bucky’s face press against the back of his neck, felt his breath evening out. “’M tired now. Sleep.”_

_“What? Bucky, I’m not tired. It’s still early. Lemme up.”_

_He wriggled, but Bucky held tight. “Hold still for once in your life,” Bucky said. “Stay here with me, Stevie. It’s nice.”_

_“I’m not tired.”_

_“Then lie there with your eyes open. I’m going to sleep.”_

_“You know I can’t just lay here and do nothing!”_

_“Then go to sleep.”_

_“Ugh!”_

_Steve squirmed, and Bucky chuckled, refusing to give up his hold. “Fine, fine,” he said after getting an elbow in the ribs. “Just give me a few minutes, then you can go do whatever you want.”_

_“You mean after you fall asleep?”_

_“Yeah. After I’m asleep.”_

_“Fine.”_

_Steve settled, but made sure that his posture and position made his noncompliance clear. He was still too wound up, too high on that feeling of being alive to just lay there with nothing to do. No_ one _to do._

_Then Bucky began to sing. He whispered the words, lips moving lightly against the back of Steve’s neck. The rhythm was soothing, familiar, and by the end of the first chorus Steve realized his heart had slowed, matching that of the heart pressed up against his back. His breathing matched Bucky’s too. His eyes began to droop._

_“No fair, Buck.”_

_Bucky never stopped singing._

 

Every night they weren’t together, Steve dreamed of their past. It made for a number of awkward mornings, rising from his bed with tear stains on his face. Usually the memories were pleasant, times when he and Bucky were happy, together, and their biggest worry was having enough money to get through the next month. But upon waking, Steve realized that time was gone, and the tears came quickly. Mostly he could reach the bathroom for some privacy before breaking down if he’d shared a room with Sam, but not always.

And though Sam never judged, Steve didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to admit what had been going on those nights when he insisted on his own room.

Like this night.

It had taken Bucky longer to come to him. Steve had spent hours sitting alone in his room, lights off, wide awake in bed, just waiting. Each hour that passed Steve felt the vice around his heart twist a bit tighter, strangling him. By three o’clock he was afraid Bucky wasn’t coming at all. That the glimpse he had gotten that afternoon, the dark figure standing on the half-collapsed roof of a ruined Hydra lab had been the last time he would ever see his best friend. But he couldn’t give up, couldn’t lie down and fall asleep. He would wait all night if he had to. He would wait forever.

Then the door creaked open. The door. Bucky had never come in through the door before. He was still covered in dirt and blood from the battle, and smelled of smoke and ash. As he came closer, Steve could see the long gash just above his right eye; no longer bleeding, but swollen and red.

“Are you all right?” He didn’t usually try to speak to Bucky so soon, if at all. But his worry, and the late hour overrode his common sense. He touched the gash gently, watching his friend’s face for any sign of pain.

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he took Steve’s hand in his, pulling it down where he could see it, and ran his thumb over the busted knuckles.

“It’s fine,” Steve said, his voice a whisper, afraid to say anything more.

Bucky inspected his hand carefully, pressing and flexing, checking for broken bones. The serum had already closed the flesh, but the wounds were pink and clearly new.

“You don’t have to fuss, Buck.” The words fell from Steve’s lips before he realized what he was saying.

Bucky’s inspection stopped short, his hand still against Steve’s own. Steve scrambled to take the words back, but couldn’t, and so began apologizing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to--I just--I don’t know--”

One quick shake of his head, that was enough to silence Steve once more. Then slowly, reverently, Bucky leaned down, and kissed the knuckles he had been tending.

The next word came as easily and as unguarded as before. “Stay.”

Lifting his head, Bucky met Steve’s gaze. Grey eyes were clear, no black paint to darken them or hide them, and Steve’s heart stuttered at how much of the past he saw there.

“Not yet,” Bucky said. Then he was kissing Steve, pressing him back down onto the bed, and hope kept them warm for another night.

 

_He awoke screaming._

_He could still feel the winter cold stinging his cheeks, the wind threatening to tear a strip from his flesh. He could still hear the deafening blast of the gun, could still see the blood running down Bucky’s face--what was left of it. The rest of the Commandos had held him back, drawn him away. Steve fought their grips, but all of them together managed to keep him from running to Bucky’s side. He screamed Bucky’s name, over and over again--and then the spot where his body lay went up in flames._

_“Steve!”_

_Hands were still on him, holding him down, holding him back, keeping him from getting where he really needed to be._

_“Steve, stop! Wake up. You’re awake, look at me. It’s me. Bucky. Breathe.”_

_Bucky. Steve held his breath, froze, blinked a few times until the tears cleared from his eyes. He clutched at the hands on his arms, squeezing tightly, feeling the pulse steady at the wrist. “Buck.”_

_“Yeah, Steve. You awake now?” Bucky knelt over him, blue coat open at the neck despite the cold, something he did to help keep himself awake when he was on watch._

_Watch. The war. They were in the middle of absolute nowhere, on their way to the next mission, the next battle. Bucky had been on watch. Had forced Steve to actually get some sleep for a change. “Yeah. I’m awake. I’m okay.”_

_“You’re shakin’ like a leaf. Sit up a minute.”_

_“Really, it’s fine. Just a dream--”_

_“Heard you screamin’, Steve, dream is not the word to use. Come on.” He hauled Steve up, manhandling him as easily as he always had when he’d been smaller. He handed him a canteen and forced him to drink. Just water, but it did help calm Steve’s nerves some. What helped most though was seeing Bucky there, in front of him, alive, talking, whole._

_“Thanks,” he muttered, handing the canteen back._

_“Wanna talk about it?”_

_“No.”_

_“Come on, Steve.”_

_Steve shook his head, immediately feeling his heart constrict as he remembered the blank look on Bucky’s face in his nightmare, all the blood, barely enough to hide the damage done._

_“Stevie.”_

_The nickname shocked him, chased away the images of the dream and sent Steve searching the area for their fellow soldiers. DumDum laughed somewhere off in the distance. Gabe, sleeping on the other side of the clearing, had rolled back over if Steve’s screaming had woken him; no doubt trusting Bucky to take care of things. They all had bad nights. They all knew a lot of staring didn’t help matters._

_But Bucky never used that nickname around others. Not ever when they could be overheard._

_“You got shot,” Steve said, his defenses useless. “Saw it, heard it. Was right there and couldn’t stop it. One second you were talkin’ to me and the next . . . ”_

_“’M right here, Steve. Still alive. Was just a dream.”_

_“You said dream wasn’t the word.”_

_“Fine, nightmare. Happy? Either way, didn’t happen.”_

_“Could happen though.”_

_“Don’t be morbid.”_

_Steve huffed a laugh, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Told you that last week.”_

_“Yeah, when I was being morbid after a dumb dream. Your turn.”_

_Bucky had refused to tell Steve what the nightmare had been about, but he’d been white as a sheet and screaming Steve’s name. It had taken Steve far too long to wake him, long enough that he had begun to panic, until finally Bucky’s eyes flew open, and all it took was seeing Steve for him to realize the truth._

_Steve had lost count of how many times he’d seen Bucky die in his dreams. He wondered if Bucky had lost count as well._

_“Cut it out,” Bucky said, cuffing him lightly across the shoulder. “I mean it.”_

_“Sorry. I’m good. Really, Buck. Thanks. I’ll, ah, I’ll just get up now. Take watch.”_

_“The hell you will.” Bucky grabbed Steve by the wrist, yanking him back down when he tried to stand. “You need sleep.”_

_“I slept. It’s fine.”_

_“You weren’t asleep an hour. No way. Lay down.”_

_It was an argument, one laced with insults and wrestling, but the familiarity actually calmed Steve further. In the end, Bucky won, pinning Steve to his chest and holding tight._

_“Now to go sleep, punk.”_

_Steve felt Bucky shift behind him. Getting comfortable. “What’re you doin’?”_

_“What’s it look like? Staying here, making sure your dumb ass gets some much needed rest. We gotta train to catch.”_

_“Don’t you have watch?”_

_“Nope. Falsworth took over. I’m on Captain’s Watch now.”_

_“That’s not a thing.”_

_“Like hell it isn’t. We take turns. I take more turns than most. Now go to sleep.”_

_He couldn’t deny that he liked it here, with Bucky pressed against his back, heartbeat steady and soothing, just like they often slept at home. But . . . “Buck, we can’t just--”_

_“Shut up, Steve.”_

_“People will talk.”_

_“No they won’t. No one gives a shit what happens out here.”_

_“Not what you said before.”_

_“Yeah, well, I say it again tell me to fuck off.”_

_Steve sighed, recognizing when Bucky’s stubbornness was about to outmatch his own. And he was tired . . . so tired. Yet every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was the blood, and Bucky’s grey eyes, slowly dimming, cold and devoid of all the life Steve cherished . . ._

_“Buck.” He hated the way his voice cracked, but it was all he needed to say._

_Shifting once more, Bucky pressed closer, his face buried in Steve’s hair, his lips close to his ear. And in the dark of night, with their friends only feet away, but feeling as though they were completely alone in the world, Bucky began to sing._

 

It had been a month. A month of nothing. No sightings. No glimpses. Just bodies and rubble and blood and another Hydra limb torn apart.

A month of spending some nights on the other side of the room from Sam, listening to his friend’s uneven snores--Sam had really been a saint through all of this; Steve was beginning to realize that he would never begin to be able to repay him. Other nights were spent completely alone in yet another cold, impersonal hotel room, with nothing but the darkness and silence to keep him company.

And his memories. Steve didn’t worry so much about the dreams. He barely slept anyway.

That night, it was his thoughts that were the problem. It had been a week since the trail had gone completely cold. A week since the last attack on Hydra that let him know Bucky was still moving, still carrying out his self-appointed mission, still alive. Sam never said it, but Steve could see it in his face, could hear it in the subtext of their conversations.

Maybe it was time to go home. To wait it out elsewhere.

To give up.

No, Sam would never say “give up,” he knew what this meant to Steve, Steve knew he did.

But that’s what it felt like. Giving up.

He couldn’t give up on Bucky. Not again.

Sam could go home. He’d given up enough of his life for Steve’s insane search, Steve’s obsession. He would tell him tomorrow. Steve could go on alone. He would manage.

The door creaked, and Steve shot up, reaching for his shield beside the bed. He was just about to let it fly when he heard metal clang against metal.

Metal fingers, holding the other side of his shield.

Steve let out a breath, systematically releasing the tension in his body one muscle at a time. Bucky looked good, from what he could see in the dark. Certainly better than he had the last time Steve had seen him. There were no fresh cuts or wounds on his face, no bandages, no self-done stitches. His face seemed fuller, like he had been eating well, and his hair had been pulled back, out of his eyes, which were clear and unblackened.

For the longest time Steve didn’t know what to say, the shield still between them. They stood that way, the glowing numbers on the bedside clock slowly ticking away, until finally Steve let his arm lower, and Bucky uncurled his fingers from the edge.

“Hey, Buck.”

In the next instant they were kissing. Desperate and hungry, hands roaming and grabbing, pushing clothes aside, tearing seams in their haste.

Steve wanted more. Needed more. He fought for control as they tumbled back onto the bed, rolling until he had Bucky beneath him, something he had never dared before, afraid of making the other man feel trapped, or too vulnerable. That night was different. It felt different. The air seemed heavy, their kisses felt loaded with words neither would say, and their hands traced the lines and planes of their bodies as if memorizing every curve, every detail.

Steve couldn’t tell if it felt like hello, or goodbye.

So he took what he wanted, always with a gentleness, a clear signal that they could stop at any time.

Bucky never stopped him.

Steve drew from him moans and gasps that he hadn’t heard in seventy years, using his memories to drive him, to relearn each sensitive spot on his lover’s body. He wanted Bucky to remember everything, every little thing, each word ever said, each glance ever shared. He mapped their past along Bucky’s body, unable to use words.

And when it was over, when they both lay together, panting and covered in sweat, Steve’s head pillowed on Bucky’s chest, listening to his heart and reminding himself with each beat that Bucky was alive, alive, _alive--_ Steve finally allowed himself to cry.

He wasn’t going to ask. Not this time. If this was what he thought it was, then he didn’t want to hear the answer. As long as he never heard it, then it wasn’t true, it wasn’t real, and he could still have hope.

So silence was his ally, and Steve fought off sleep with every ounce of will he had. He would not lose this. Not yet. Not now.

He wouldn’t say it, but he thought it, over and over again, as if he could fold his desire into Bucky by sheer force of will.

_Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay._

_Stay._

_Stay._

The clock changed again, counting the hours that Steve didn’t want to pass.

_Stay._

 

_Stay._

 

Bucky drew a deep breath, his entire body shifting beneath Steve, his muscles changing, tensing, preparing to move.

Steve clung a little tighter. Squeezed his eyes shut.

_. . . Stay._

 

The words were soft, quiet, hesitant. Steve held his breath, unsure if he had actually heard anything, or if he had finally driven himself mad. But there they were. Floating on the silence. Rougher than they had been before, the voice whittled away by time and events, but there all the same.

And in the dark of the hotel room, seventy years away from a cold mountaintop of a war-torn world, with nothing between them but the flesh on their bones--

Bucky sang.

**Author's Note:**

> ::peeks from behind desk:: 
> 
> On Tumblr here-- [minako1x2](http://www.minako1x2.tumblr.com)


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